Thawing
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Being prepared is everything.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note:** In the second season episode, "You and the Horse You Rode In On", Mark sets out to prove he has what it takes to survive on his own. Unfortunately, his efforts at independence lead him into unwitting cooperation with huckster David Waverly, as the front man for his pyramid scheme. Hardcastle is stuck enlightening Mark, who doesn't take the news well. Once he realizes he's being used as a shill, though, McCormick tries to quit his profitable but dishonest job, only returning when Hardcastle's life is threatened. Lt. Delaney springs the judge from his kidnappers and McCormick chases down Waverly. In the epilogue, Mark is back at Gulls Way, a poorer but wiser man.

This missing scene starts immediately after the fourth act and before the epilogue, which appears to have been taking place a few weeks after.

**Thawing**

by L.M. Lewis

Hardcastle had shaken his hand. It was the kind of thing that one man did to congratulate another on a job well done. Lieutenant Delaney was standing there grinning, too. The whole effect ought to have been heartening—David Waverly getting busted and his fraudulent scheme collapsing around him.

Mark returned the handshake. He even smiled. But somehow he didn't feel all that buoyant about the whole thing. If Hardcastle hadn't seen through Waverly's deceit, Mark knew he'd still be wearing that Rolex and selling hamster feeder franchises to the gullible crowds that showed up at the huckster's 'career seminars'.

And, worse yet, Delaney was the guy who'd had the judge's back all along through this one. That was Mark's job, and he'd abandoned it, only getting back with the program when it was too late to do any good. Now that the adrenalin rush had subsided, his failure seemed all too apparent to him.

It must've been just as apparent to nearly everyone else. Hank Kobler, the detective from Bunko, looked pretty damn askance at the whole situation when he heard what had happened. Mark noticed Hardcastle's slightly edited version of the story made the whole take-down sound prearranged.

Kobler, of course, had extensive personal experience with scam artists. Mark didn't think the finer details of this particular adventure were going to stay glossed over. He sighed and stepped into the conversation.

"I'm the one who was the middle of it."

Kobler's gaze swiveled hard to the left to take him in. Mark had never met the man before, but he suspected that being seen in context with Hardcastle was about all the description any LAPD cop needed to peg him with an I.D.

Still, Kobler was icily polite about it. "You're . . .?"

"Mark McCormick. I work for him," he jerked a thumb in Hardcastle's direction, "or at least I _was,_ until recently." He didn't glance sideward to see how much disapproval his confession was generating.

Kobler had his notebook out and was flipping to a blank page. "And your relationship to Mr. Waverly is—?"

"_Was_," Hardcastle interjected sharply.

"A shill," Mark muttered.

Kobler's look was now fixed steadily on him and had sharpened.

"An unintentional shill," Mark clarified. "I didn't know which end was up until the judge clued me in."

"And then you set up this sting?" Kobler asked doubtfully.

"No," Mark shook his head, "then I stalked out on him—the judge. It took awhile for the haze to clear."

"You're a parolee, aren't you?" Kobler frowned and glanced over at Hardcastle though he was still addressing Mark. "What were you doing hooked up with an ex-con like Waverly? Didn't your PO have something to say about that?"

Hardcastle stepped in again. "Not a technical." He shook his head once. "Waverly'd finished his own parole four years back. I'm the PO for notification purposes and he notified me once he'd gotten hired."

That was a fib at least, if not an outright lie, Mark figured, seeing as he hadn't rushed right out and dropped a dime to share the good news with his _de facto_ PO, but the judge seemed to be on a roll.

"It was a little experiment, see?" Hardcastle said bluffly. "He's halfway through his parole and we thought it was a good time for him to get a dose of real-world work experience."

Mark almost blushed on Hardcastle's behalf—having been there at the outset of the 'little experiment' and barely recognizing it through the judge's roseate glow of recollection.

Kobler, on the other hand, hadn't been there. He was still frowning but after a moment gave it a single, considering nod and jotted something down in his notebook. Then he flipped it shut, abruptly, and seemed to write Mark off at nearly the same moment. He turned back to Hardcastle.

"We'll need a full statement from you, but Delaney told me you had a rough time. It can wait a bit."

"That's very considerate of you." The judge smiled. He probably hadn't intended to reopen the dried cut on his swollen lip, but the effect was just as good anyway. "I'll be available tomorrow morning. Is ten okay?"

Kobler nodded again and pulled a card out of his jacket pocket, handing it over to the judge. Then he turned back to Mark. "You can step over here, please."

The 'please' was strictly protocol. Mark recognized the imperative when he heard it.

"Wait a sec, detective," Hardcastle reached out with his free hand, snagging Mark's arm and restraining him. It was an uncomfortable position, caught between the irresistible force and the immovable object. "He's had a pretty full day, too: unlawful restraint, assault and battery. I think you'll get a more useful statement from him tomorrow morning, as well."

Mark tried to look shaken up—downtrodden, even. It wasn't a stretch when he considered the pitfalls of giving his unrehearsed recollections of the past week to a Bunko detective without benefit of counsel.

Kobler looked as if he were considering the possibilities too, and regretting the missed opportunity deeply. But, all in all, when a retired judge hands you a big fish like Waverly, it was only prudent to let him take the little minnow home.

The detective finally sighed and said, "Okay, tomorrow, _nine_."

He gave them a farewell duck of the chin, then turned and strode off. Mark couldn't help that his breath escaped him as a heavy sigh. He turned his head to take in the judge, stuffing Kobler's card into his pocket and looking disgruntled.

"He's right," Mark said sharply, "Waverly's goons roughed you up."

Hardcastle shrugged and touched the side of his nose gingerly. "Nothin' an ice bag and a couple of aspirin won't fix." He frowned. "And don't change the subject."

"What subject?" Mark asked innocently.

"The one where you open your mouth and stick your foot in when nobody was even asking you a question. You figure if you can't make it on the outside it's time to talk 'em into putting you back in?"

The judge still had him by the arm and this last remark was accompanied by a stiff shake. It didn't transmit, though—Mark had gone rigid. Hardcastle didn't seem to notice. He'd dropped his grip and, still frowning, had turned toward the Coyote.

Mark recognized the thing that had frozen him in place—fear, mostly, hearing Hardcastle voice the possibility out loud. Up until now it had been a vague supposition, that the parole board might find some revocable action in his recent escapades. But there was no denying the other emotion that was welling up suddenly beneath the fear: cold anger. If after all this they were going back to square one, if nothing had changed and Hardcastle would still be treating him like a kid who didn't have a lick of good sense—

He realized he was still standing stock still, with Hardcastle halfway to the Coyote, shoulders slumped like a man who really _had_ had a pretty rough day. Based on the timing of his rather pathetic calls to the judge's answering machine, Mark realized he must have fallen into Waverly's clutches sometime late the day before yesterday.

_Damn_. In his haste to respond to Waverly's threats this morning, Mark suddenly realized that he hadn't bothered to erase the tape. He cringed and propelled himself into motion, striding toward Hardcastle and the car.

He stifled every uncooperative emotion—fear, anger, and now embarrassment—and said, very sensibly, "I think we ought to stop off on the way home and let a doc check you out."

"Why?" the judge glanced back at him impatiently. "I wanna go home. A hot shower, something to eat." He frowned. "Might have to stop at the store."

"Don't tell me—you've been living on pizza and Pinky Fizz, right?"

There was no immediate answer. Mark thought he might still pull this off.

"Okay, no doc." He tempered his frown of disapproval with something a little more conciliatory. "We can stop off and pick up some burgers, then you head straight upstairs—clean up that cut and hit the sack, and I'll go get the groceries later."

Hardcastle protested, "The store's right on the way," but it didn't have much energy behind it and Mark just shook his head firmly as he climbed into the Coyote.

"I missed it," he said, absently.

He realized the judge was staring at him.

"The Coyote," he added abruptly, patting the steering wheel.

"Uh-huh."

00000

The rest of the drive was made in near silence, except for placing the order at the Burger Barn drive-thru. Mark spent most of the quiet moments calculating how he might wrangle a quick visit to the den before Hardcastle made it in there.

He thought he had it figured, and with that aim in mind he pulled down the drive all the way to the garage. His plan was to park Hardcastle and burgers in the kitchen and then, suddenly deciding a three-piece suit was the wrong outfit for a double cheeseburger special, make his exit to the gatehouse via the front door. That would take him close enough to the den to duck in and hit the 'erase' button.

But, like the poet said, schemes have a habit of ganging aft agley—and this one was agleying all over the place the moment Hardcastle pulled himself stiffly out of the Coyote.

"Ya aren't gonna sit around in that monkey suit, are ya?" He squinted at Mark as he reached over and took the bag of food into custody. "Go change." He shooed with one hand directly toward the gatehouse. "I won't eat yours."

The damn imperative again. Mark glanced at the kitchen door and realized he had no good contingency plan. It was possible Hardcastle would go straight to the kitchen and stay there. The best idea would be to hustle over to the gatehouse, change quickly, and return via the front door.

That's what he did. It was a peculiar sort of homecoming, the familiar made strange by a few weeks absence. Under any other circumstances he probably would have savored it, but the combination of uncertainty and potential embarrassment had drained all the pleasure out of it. He took the steps up to the loft two at a time, skimmed out of his clothes, and dug up some things he'd left behind: jeans and a t-shirt. Shoes were more of a challenge, involving a search under the bed. Still, he was back on the lawn and striding toward the front door in not much more than ten minutes.

Unlocked, as it had been this morning—Hardcastle's strangely rural attitude toward home security. Mark shook his head and stepped in. No one in the den. He glanced down the hall, pausing and hearing no approaching footsteps. All good. He ducked into the den and crept down the two steps, leaning over the desk and reaching for the answering machine.

No blinking light. Someone had already erased the machine. Mark frowned. This morning seemed a lifetime removed from the present but he still would have sworn he hadn't had a chance to deal with the recordings. He tried to console himself with the notion that he'd actually intended Hardcase to get those messages.

_But that was when you still thought you had to grovel to get him to let you back in here._

The three recordings had sounded increasingly desperate—embarrassingly so. He sighed. There was no way to undo the damage now. He straightened, tried to summon what little dignity he had left, and headed up the steps and back toward the kitchen.

Hardcastle was at the counter, fiddling with an ice cube tray. The burger bag was still unopened. Everything pointed to the probability that he'd just spent some time checking his answering machine. He didn't make any pointed remarks, though, and Mark wasn't going to ask him outright.

"Here," he said impatiently, "lemme do that. Sit down already, before the stuff gets cold."

To his surprise, the judge didn't protest. The truth was, there was a black eye starting to blossom to the left of his already swollen nose, and his lip made it look as if eating might be a challenge.

Mark took a freezer bag from the box in the drawer and dumped the contents of the tray into it. He added a little tap water and pressed most of the air out before he sealed the whole thing up. Then he scrounged under the sink for a spare dish towel to swath it in and finally turned and presented it to the older man.

Hardcastle accepted it and grimaced as he laid it against his nose and left eye. Mark sat down across from him and reached for the bag. "Maybe we should have stuck with a milkshake for you."

"Hmmph" was all he got in return—that and a slightly appraising look from the judge's one uncovered eye. Mark pushed a burger toward him and dumped the fries out on a napkin for easier access. He wasn't all that hungry, himself, though he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten—yesterday, he thought.

"I still think maybe we shoulda stopped at the ER on the way home. I think you mighta broke your nose."

"Wouldn't be the first time," the judge grumbled. "All they do is tell ya to put an ice bag on it and if it still looks goofy when the swelling goes down, you gotta go see a nose guy."

The judge paused, still eyeing him.

"What?" Mark asked.

"Aren't you gonna ask how I'll know it's any different because it already looked goofy?—Something like that."

Mark shook his head and reached for a fry.

The judge pulled the ice bag away for a moment, frowned at it, and reapplied it a little to the left, grunting as it touched down in the new spot. "Well," he said, "if you think all this talk about me and my busted snozz is gonna make me forget about what you told that guy from Bunko—"

"You mean the truth?"

"I dunno," Hardcastle sighed. "Here you are, a pretty decent jailhouse lawyer, and you haven't figured out the first most important thing."

"Which is?"

"Don't answer a question nobody's thought about asking yet."

Mark put his burger down and leaned forward slightly. "You know they eventually get around to asking."

"Maybe," the judge admitted, "but you'd be surprised how much of the time folks just assume they know what they think they know."

"With you, yeah. With me, _never_," Mark said adamantly. "Unless they're assuming I'm up to no good. Anyway, aren't you an 'honesty is the best policy' kind of guy or have I just been assuming I knew what I thought I knew, all along?"

"I didn't say you had to _lie_ to anybody."

"No, just let you do my lying for me."

The judge lowered the ice bag just long enough to give Mark a quick two-eyed scowl. "I wasn't lying."

"About which part?" Mark interjected pointedly. "Us planning to take Waverly down or the whole 'experiment' thing with me going out job hunting in the first place?"

Hardcastle moved the ice bag to his swollen lip and said nothing.

Mark gave his burger one last dyspeptic glance and wrapped it up again, then stood wearily and said, "You should get some sleep—" He halted with a sudden, questioning expression. "You weren't knocked out or anything like that, were you?"

"Huh?" the judge grunted. "Nah, nothin' like that. Just scrapped it up with them a little. Couldn't help it. Reflex."

Mark gave him another wary once-over and then finally nodded. "Okay, I'll hit the grocery story; you hit the sack."

It all sounded so normal. The judge didn't voice a protest, merely reached into his hip pocket and wrested out his wallet. Mark scratched his ear as he watched the man extract some twenties.

"Might be a while," he added self-consciously. "I've got to stop by my place and pick up my stuff." One more reminder of his brief period of independence.

He tried not to grimace as he accepted the cash and stuffed it into his own pocket. At least Hardcastle hadn't said, 'Don't forget to bring back the change'. He never said anything like that, come to think of it, though Mark was pretty careful to make sure change and receipts were always left on the desk or the kitchen counter. He might be the teenager in this operation, but at least he was a mostly responsible one.

00000

It wasn't until he got to the store that he realized there was anything else afoot. In truth, Hardcastle wasn't the only one whole been batching it the past couple of weeks. Mark's excuse had been that he'd been too busy shilling for Waverly to do any cooking in his fancy new apartment, and before that he'd been holed up in a seedy hotel with not so much as a hot plate to call his own.

So the proximity of the holiday had completely escaped him. It was hard to ignore now, mired at the end of aisle seven in a gaper's block of turkey shoppers. The open freezer bin was piled high with the corpses and folks were inspecting them, though Mark wasn't sure exactly what there was to inspect—they were all securely shrink-wrapped and bagged in plastic netting.

He found himself nudged forward in the pack before he'd even had a chance to consider his options. Someone reached around him and snagged a bird. It seemed like the thing to do. He scanned the contents of the bin casually and then picked one out at random.

He edged back out, toward his cart, which already contained a twenty-four pack of Pinky Fizz and two packages of Oreos. The frozen bird went on the bottom for ballast. He frowned. He knew nothing about preparing one. Last year Sarah had made the feast appear in the magical way that such things happened: a few hours of good smells followed by twenty minutes of chowing down before the football game started. The two years before that had been more industrial, though even San Quentin had the requisite turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing.

Mark grimaced. If prisons came up to scratch on Thanksgiving, there was no excuse for avoiding it. Besides, how hard could it be?

He pondered what he knew about such feasts and came up with a mental inventory. A small alarm bell went off at around the tenth necessary item. He reached for his pocket, pulled out the cash Hardcastle had supplied, and counted the bills.

It was twice the usual amount, which might have been a commentary on how depleted the kitchen was. The judge hadn't made any mention of Thanksgiving. With no further guidance than that, and the now-certain knowledge that there was only one day left, Mark snatched up a bag of cranberries and two frozen pumpkin pies.

00000

His last stop was at the luxury apartment building that overlooked the marina. He parked in his reserved spot. He'd already returned his leased Beemer to the dealership two days ago. It was a strange feeling, to be revisiting this place—yet another former life. He'd shed it with only a twinge of regret. Now he let himself back in, wondering if it would hurt.

He flipped the switch and gazed at the white on white décor. It was modern, sleek, and sterile as hell. He gathered up his few items. He hadn't even had a chance to unpack the few mementos he'd thrown into a box. Maybe he'd secretly realized this place wasn't home—wasn't _him._

He frowned. Was Gulls Way? The gatehouse? What had Hardcase said to that detective this afternoon? 'Halfway through his parole--a little experiment.'

_An utter and complete disaster_. If it hadn't been shilling for Waverly, what would it have been? He shuddered and stooped to gather up box and battered suitcase—all he'd bothered to take away with him when he'd stomped out of the estate the first time. So little? He must have had a well-founded premonition.

00000

It was nearly dark by the time he pulled into the drive—the garage side again, to expedite the unloading of the groceries. His own things could wait. The kitchen light was on, but there was no one in there. Mark set two bags on the table then fished out the change and the receipt and deposited them on the counter. He was turning to go get the second load when he heard Hardcastle's familiar steady tread.

"Back in a sec," he said, not pausing. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. One more load of groceries wouldn't delay it much, but he needed a little more time to settle his face and his feelings.

He didn't feel all that much better the second trip in but the judge was amusing himself with a poke through the first load.

"Cranberries?" he said with an air of mystification.

"They were on sale."

Hardcastle nodded, then cocked his head. "A twenty-_two_ pound bird?"

Mark stood for a moment, nearly as frozen as the fowl in question.

"Sandwiches?" he ventured cautiously.

"Till Christmas," Hardcastle observed sagely and then asked, "You know what to do with all this stuff?"

"Mostly . . . well, _some_," Mark admitted. "I've got Sarah's number."

Hardcastle's eyebrows went up. "You're not planning on getting her down here to rustle up the grub on Thursday—"

"_No_," Mark shook his head decisively. Then, with a little less confidence, "Advice, that's all." He paused for a moment and then said, a little wistfully, "Would be nice to invite her down sometime but—"

"_No_," Hardcastle interpolated, snatching up the banner of decisiveness, "not two days before Thanksgiving. Besides," he added, his certainty foundering slightly, "how hard can it be?"

00000

Mark made the phone call after dinner—which was pizza—but got only Sarah's answering machine. He'd already reached his quota of groveling phone messages for the week, so he merely wished her a happy holiday and said he'd call back another time.

Hardcastle looked up briefly when Mark sauntered into the den.

"What'd she say?"

"It's not that hard," Mark answered. He could stick to the absolute, uninformative truth almost as well as the judge himself.

He wandered back into the kitchen and found a cookbook on the shelf over the refrigerator—turkey casserole, turkey almandine, turkey sausage. There seemed to be a consistent presumption of a pre-existing cooked turkey. He squinted a little, back to a memory that involved his mother, an enameled black roasting pan, and some cheesecloth. He wasn't sure exactly where the cheesecloth fit in, and he hoped it wasn't critical, because he hadn't gotten any and couldn't even remember seeing it at the store. He opened the fridge one last time and inspected the bird, lying there looking uncomplicated. There was some fine print on the shrink wrap and he figured it was about time he started reading the small print. "Roast at 325 degrees, 15-20 minutes per pound, or until browned, with an internal temperature of 170 degrees."

There. Easy. Well, maybe the temperature-taking was a little mysterious, but that appeared to be a minor detail. He put it to the back of his mind as he closed the refrigerator door, though he'd been almost grateful for the temporary distraction. He turned and saw Hardcastle in the doorway.

"Got a lot to do tomorrow—I'm turning in."

He glanced up at the clock, surprised to see that it was after ten. A little early for a guy who'd had a nap, but further evidence that Hardcastle's stay with Waverly had been grimmer than he was admitting to.

Mark felt another twinge of guilt about that, though he suspected that the judge would call it a fair deal in exchange for the con-man's arrest. To Hardcastle he merely said, "Sounds like a good idea."

00000

He unpacked his car and carted the load over to the gatehouse. Putting things away only took another twenty minutes. Again he pondered how easy it was to put it all back—the trophy went there, the photo over there. Everything _belonged_.

Unfortunately, when that was done he was left to ponder the one last remaining item—himself. He moved restlessly from sofa, to bed and back again, unable to follow Hardcastle's advice and just turn in. The thing the judge had said to Kobler—the part about him being halfway through his parole—

_What happened to 'indefinitely'?_

He couldn't possibly _want_ to be stuck here forever—endless rounds of chasing bad guys and watching John Wayne movies. He tried the bed again, this time with his hands behind his head, studying the ceiling. No, not possible, he concluded. He'd move on . . . eventually.

It must have been the last thought he'd had before he'd fallen deeply asleep. It was morning, and the familiar sound of basketball against brickwork had awakened him.

He rolled over stiffly and ran his fingers through his hair then stumbled out of bed, still wearing the jeans and tee he had on the evening before. This, he decided, would pass, since one old pair of jeans and white tee looked very much like another.

But as soon as he stepped outside, he saw Hardcastle stow the ball under the crook of his arm and jerk his chin back toward the main house. Mark had a notion he'd been snookered, lured out with the promise of an innocent exchange of elbows under the hoop. And if Hardcase had felt subterfuge was needed, then most likely the next part was going to be unpleasant.

Mark trudged after him, up the drive and the front steps. He was slightly surprised that their route didn't take a sharp right, once inside. Instead, the judge headed down the hall, all the way back to the kitchen.

"You forgot?" he said, turning and apparently noting the puzzlement on McCormick's face. "Kobler, nine sharp."

Mark made a silent 'oh', and then sighed and sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. The table was set and the cereal bowls were out. The judge dropped four slices of bread into the toaster and grabbed the milk from the fridge.

"I figured you weren't gonna have much of an appetite, but you better eat something."

Mark nodded. The judge was right about that first part, definitely. He squinted at the older man and said, "Maybe you could go first, huh?"

"Don't think so." Hardcastle shook his head. "Anyway, you just stick to the facts."

"We had a big fight and you threw me out?"

"I didn't throw you out," Hardcastle protested. "You stomped off."

Mark frowned a moment and then said, "You didn't call it in, did you?"

"'_Course_ not," the judge said stiffly. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Mark cocked his head, still frowning. "What about the conditions for the judicial stay—what about me being Tonto, _indefinitely_?"

"What about maybe we stick to the subject here, kiddo?" Hardcastle groused. "And maybe I thought you needed to see what it's like out there."

"You needed to see me fall flat on my face," Mark muttered with sudden bitterness.

"No, it wasn't that."

It had come out sharp, but then Hardcastle paused, as if he'd run into an ugly patch of truth.

"Okay," he conceded, "maybe stumble a little. See that you didn't have it so bad here. That's all."

"Yeah," Mark said soberly.

"'Yeah'? That's all, just '_yeah_'?"

"Yeah, it's easier here. Three squares, rules to follow. Chores. The view's nicer than Q, and when somebody jumps me I can hit back without getting in trouble."

"So you're saying this is like prison."

Mark sat for a moment. There was no pat answer for this. It wasn't, really, and yet it wasn't like an ordinary adult life, either.

"Everybody makes mistakes," he said with quiet intensity. "I know I've made my share."

"Yeah," the judge agreed, "we all have."

Mark lifted an eyebrow. "You, too, huh?"

Hardcastle nodded.

"Anything recent?" Mark asked curiously.

"Maybe," Hardcastle admitted reluctantly. "I think the last one was letting you walk out of here angry a couple of weeks ago. I was angry, too. People make bad decisions when they're angry. And me being mad at you was probably why I was kind of hoping you'd fall on your face . . . a little."

"You mean you weren't counting on me doing the cannon ball from the high platform into an empty diving well?"

"That," Hardcastle risked a small smile, "I wasn't betting on. But I gotta tell you, you did it with style—a perfect ten right before you hit the concrete. My God, the cufflinks—"

"I looked pretty sharp for a patsy, huh?"

"—the Rolex."

At that, Hardcastle fell suddenly silent. There was an awkward moment which for Mark involved an image of the fish tank into which he deposited the watch.

"I don't always make lousy decisions when I'm angry," he pointed out.

"Me neither," Hardcastle's smile broadened slightly.

"How'd you get Waverly so mad at you?" Mark asked, curious again.

The judge shrugged.

"You went and shook his tree, huh? Told him he'd picked the wrong patsy." Mark sat back, not sure if he should be pleased or mortified.

"You beat me to it."

"But he wouldn't have sicced his goons on you if I hadn't bolted on him. I'm sorry I got you involved in it all."

"If I hadn't thrown you out, if you hadn't answered that ad, and if you hadn't come and crowed to me about it, and if I hadn't told you what was what with Waverly, and you hadn't told him off—and _I _hadn't told him off—and he hadn't made a bad decision while he was angry at _both_ of us . . . then he wouldn't be sitting in the lock-up right now. So that's a whole lotta ifs, but it all came out okay in the end, right?" Hardcastle's smile had become a grin.

"Okay," Mark conceded, "but what do we tell Kobler?"

Hardcastle's expression went suddenly stern. "Repeat after me; 'I was half-way through my parole, and we decided to try a little experiment . . .'"

00000

The interview with Kobler wasn't as bad as Mark had imagined. Maybe it was in part the approaching holiday. With one guy in the lock-up and the witnesses including a retired jurist who'd been wired for sound, the detective was still in a generous mood. Mark got no more than the occasional wry and disbelieving look as he stuck steadfastly to the script. He was even able to spare Hardcastle a semi-confident smile as he left Kobler's office and the judge entered.

After that they returned to the estate. Mark spent the afternoon catching up on the weeding, by which he knew the experiment was well and truly over, though he still wasn't sure exactly what it had proven.

00000

On Thursday morning he awoke to the sound of the basketball hitting the backboard. He checked his watch and scrambled out of bed. He'd done the math the night before and matched it against the football schedule, calculating that at 17.5 minutes per pound, the bird had to be in by eight-thirty, sharp.

He ducked past Hardcastle with little more than a quick acknowledgment and a sidestep.

"_Hey_—"

"Later," was Mark's terse reply. "Gotta get it in the oven."

It really was easier than he thought. He'd located the roasting pan down in the basement the evening before, familiar to his recollections in its speckled white-on-black coloring though larger in its dimensions. He'd found something called poultry seasoning on the spice shelf and figured that was a good bet. Also he'd concluded you can't go wrong with butter. Unbagged, slathered, and sprinkled, it was ready to go at eight twenty-eight.

At two fifty-three the buzzer went off. The mashed potatoes were mashed and the dinner rolls were ready as well. Mark donned the oven mitts and bent to the job of extracting the bird. Hardcastle poked his head in to get a whiff.

"It's brown and everything," he said, in a tone that might have included an element of disbelief.

"Ye of little faith." Mark huffed it onto the table and from there onto a platter of heroic size. "Should we carve it in here?"

"The dining room." Hardcastle pointed. "It's traditional. Like Norman Rockwell and all that."

Mark picked it up, balancing it against the initial wobble, then hefted it in front of him like a trophy from the hunt. It landed a bit heavily, but properly situated for the attack, with the rest of the courses already standing by in attendance.

"What happened to the cranberries?" the judge asked politely.

"Ah," Mark winced, "it's tradition where I come from not to ask the cook what they forgot to do."

"Okay . . . never liked 'em much anyway. I think they're mostly for the color." Hardcastle brightened. "Hey, we could have ketchup, instead."

"Carve," Mark said, handing him the knife and fork.

Hardcastle sighed but rose to the task, brandishing his weapons and thrusting the two-tined fork into the fowl.

It sank about an inch. He leaned into it some and watched it penetrate perhaps another half of an inch, with the feel of sinking a spade into a frozen bog. Mark looked at the bird, then up at him. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm. Might be a little underdone." He investigated with an incision. The pink gelatinous meat lay a scant half inch below the browned skin.

A puddle of red-pink juice now threatened to overflow the serving platter and mate with the white linen tablecloth. Mark snatched the platter up, splashing a good bit of it on his sweater before he made off to the kitchen.

It was deposited on the counter there, with towels at the ready and a look of utter consternation on the face of the cook.

"Seventeen-and-a-half minutes a pound. That's what it said on the package."

"Must be something wrong with the oven." Hardcastle poked into the innards and fished out a soggy waxed paper bag.

"What's that?" Mark asked in dawning horror.

"Giblets," the judge informed him, "hearts and gizzards and stuff."

The horror had pretty much finished dawning. "_Gizzards_?"

"Just one, I think." Hardcastle tore the bag open—it was apparently cool to the touch. "Yeah, one." He looked back down at the bird. "You didn't check inside?"

Mark shook his head solemnly, vowing to himself that he would never _ever_ go looking for a gizzard. To the judge he said, "Uh-uh. It was kinda hard all the way through. I didn't think they wanted you digging around in there."

"Aah." Hardcastle wiped his hands off on a spare towel and rocked back on his heels slightly, studying the bird. "Your first one, huh?"

Mark nodded woefully.

Hardcastle glanced over at him, then down at the bird again and shook his head. "It's a shame about the oven."

"It _felt_ hot."

Hardcastle's still-swollen lower lip protruded in judicious consideration. "That can be deceptive."

Mark sighed and nodded sadly. "Guess so."

The judge scratched his head. "Got some deli ham in there, don't we? And all those mash potatoes and the rolls and all, right? We aren't gonna _starve_."

Mark frowned, still staring at the bird, and finally nodded again.

"And we'll just crate this thing up and put 'er back in," Hardcastle said cheerfully. "Another couple maybe three hours. That should do it. Turkey sandwiches tonight."

Mark looked at Hardcastle and then the oven suspiciously. "But if it's not—"

"I didn't say it was _completely _on the fritz," Hardcastle interrupted. "Some just take longer to be done than others, right?"

"Right," Mark said in a persistent puzzlement that gradually gave way to a knowing smile.


End file.
